


First Pick

by writergirl8



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Daddy!Ron, Established Relationship, F/M, Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:53:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writergirl8/pseuds/writergirl8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Rose Weasley, her father will always be her first pick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Pick

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to let you know that Rose is getting a little bit older in each piece of the story. She is aging between each section.

Daddy is orange.

 

His hair is orange, wild above his head; messy on Sunday mornings as it peeks over the top of the comic section of the Daily Prophet. His freckles are orange, starkly standing against the pale of his skin as the sun reflects off the white flesh that resides there. And really his freckles are brown, but as he flies high in the sky, hair on fire from the blazing sun, his freckles seem orange against the rest of him.

 

His clothes are orange. Sometimes he’ll hoist me onto the shoulders of his Chudley Cannons team shirt, my bare feet knocking against the soft fabric that smells of freshly mown grass and mummy’s favorite laundry detergent. The crowd pulses and sways beneath us, but daddy carries me safely through the tangled throng of people. Sometimes he’ll drink pumpkin juice with rum and his breath smells orange too: fall mixed with something headier.

 

His temper is orange. It flares bright, but never truly lights on fire. It certainly doesn’t burn in my direction very often, but when it does, it’s a difficult shade to look at. There’s no shelter in that color orange, so I just have to wait until it mutes into something softer. It never takes long- a tear, or a smile, or an apology.

 

Daddy loves me like I am as orange as he is.

 

(OOO)

 

The first time I had asked for a chocolate chip smiley face in my pancake, daddy had gruffly cleared his throat. He indignantly insisted that he was not going to make perfectly nice inanimate objects smile at me.

 

“You have the world at your feet,” he had told me, brandishing the plastic spatula in my direction. A bit of batter flew off and went _splat_ against the wall, and I had giggled, wondering how mummy would react when she saw it. “You don’t need a pastry to grin at you with chocolate chips.”

 

But I had shaken my head vigorously, and he had sighed and taken the bag of small chocolate chips from me, dotting them along a smile line for the thick, fluffy pancake. And when he had seen my happy smile, he had done smiley face pancakes every Sunday since.

 

Some Sundays, though, daddy doesn’t feel well. I’ll run to knock on his and mummy’s bedroom door, excited for my pancake day, and mummy will quietly exit the room and close the door softly behind herself. It’s not loud, but it’s firm enough to make me understand that I’m not allowed to break through it.

 

“Sorry, Rosie,” she’ll say, crouching down on the ground in front of me. Her messy morning hair falls all over her cheeks, tickling them. “Daddy isn’t feeling too well today.”

 

My lower lip quivers and I try to be a big girl and not cry, but mummy just kisses the top of my forehead.

 

“I know that it doesn’t taste as good when I make you pancakes, but will you let me make them for you today?”

 

I thrust my thumb into my mouth and nod anyways, but only because I don’t want to hurt mummy’s feelings. The chocolate chips that she dots into a smile are too neatly spaced; put together with too much effort.

 

(OOO)

 

Hugo is tiny. When daddy holds him, I think that Hugo might fit in one of his hands, cupped there like a doll. But daddy is careful with him and holds him in his arms so purposefully that I feel a twinge of jealousy in my heart. He and mummy stare at Hugo a lot, like they think that Hugo is about to disappear. The first few days that Hugo was here, mummy cried a lot, and daddy cried too, but now she’s okay and daddy’s okay and Hugo’s okay and I’m okay and everything is okay.

 

Mummy and daddy don’t want to let go of Hugo for days after he’s born, but on the night before mummy finally leaves the hospital, I find daddy sitting in the rocking chair by her bed. Mummy’s sleeping, but Hugo isn’t, and he blinks up at daddy with clear blue eyes, just staring.

 

“He looks like you,” I say because everybody else does. I guess that’s what you’re supposed to say when you meet people’s babies for the first time.

 

Daddy laughs.

 

“Do you wanna hold him, Rosie?”

 

I frown.

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Daddy almost looks offended, which surprises me. You’d think mummy would be the one who’s offended. She’s the one that had the baby in her belly all that time.

 

“He’s too tiny,” I say, shaking my head vigorously. A few red strands of hair fall in front of my face and I impatiently pucker my lips and blow through them to get the hair away from me. “I think I’ll drop him.”

 

Daddy laughs, then looks nervously over at mummy, worrying that he’s woken her. She smacks her lips in her sleep.

 

“You won’t drop him,” Daddy promises. “And even if you do, I promise that I won’t ever tell him.”

 

I shake my head once more, nerves starting to clench through my stomach.

 

Daddy studies me for a second, his eyes on my eyes.

 

“Rosie, I really need to help your mum for a few seconds, so I need you to be a big girl and hold the baby for me. You would be doing me a favor.”

 

His expression is earnest in the light of the hospital room.

 

“Fine,” I say, pouting only slightly, and daddy nods gratefully before getting out of his chair and motioning me to sit down on it. He tells me how to hold my arms, smiling encouragingly as I arrange them in the right position, and then daddy carefully places the new baby in my embrace. He’s so heavy for something so tiny.

 

Daddy moves over to mummy’s bed. She isn’t awake, but he gets on the bed with her and wraps her up in his arms, pulling her body close to his. He props his head up in his hand, his elbow sinking into the pillow beside mummy’s head. And he looks at her with the face that he reserves just for her.

 

I smile and hug Hugo against my body.

 

(OOO)

 

Hugo walks for the first time on my birthday.

 

Mummy runs into her bedroom and starts crying during my party. Aunt Ginny exchanges a glance with Uncle Harry, who looks completely lost, before patting me on the head and rushing out of the room to mummy. 

 

Uncle Harry goes to stand by daddy, placing a hand on his arm. Daddy doesn’t say anything, just gives Uncle Harry a quick nod before turning back to the stove. As he does so, his eyes catch mine and he sees the way I breathe in large gulps of air, my lip trembling along with my shakes. Daddy slips off his apron and immediately slides across the floor to me, wrapping him up in his arms.

 

He hugs me like I’m his most favoritest thing in the world.

 

“Are you alright, Rosie?”

 

I’m not alright. Mummy is crying and it’s my birthday and all Hugo did was walk and it’s not fair.

 

He wipes away my tears and lets me have a bite of cake before dinner and he promises that my birthday is mine alone. For the rest of the party, daddy sits at my side while Hugo is passed around from Nana Molly to Aunt Fleur to Uncle Harry to Auntie Audrey to Grandpa Arthur. It doesn’t matter that my grandparents and godfather and aunties are paying more attention to my baby brother because daddy sits by me the entire night, keeping his warm fingers twisted in my cold ones.

 

But later that night, when daddy is tucking me in, I have to ask the question.

 

Our nightly ritual is important, so I wait until it is finished before I can get my lips to form the words. First, daddy pulls all of the covers off of my bed and sets them carefully on the floor. I hop into bed and turn over onto my stomach. Daddy balloons the sheet over me and I always giggle as it settles on top of me. Then he picks up my blue comforter from the floor and tucks it all around me, making sure that it sticks close to my sides.

 

“Daddypie?” I say, my voice going up at the end. He’s about to shut off the light, but he turns his head to look at me.

 

“Yeah, sweetiepie?”

 

“Why was mummy crying?”

 

For just a moment, his face crumples. He looks so tired, just like he does when he comes home from long-term auror missions. But he hasn’t gone away since Hugo was born. This time, it's my fault. Unable to look at him, I let my eyes settle on the way my hands are tangling in my soft duvet. Daddy’s weight settles on the bed next to me.

 

“Rosie, remember how excited we were when we found out that you were going to have a little brother?” I nod. “Well, at the hospital, mummy and I found out that Hugo is going to be the last baby that we have.”

 

I frown.

 

“You wanted more babies?”

 

He shrugs.

 

“Maybe. We love you and Hugh so much that we both thought it would be nice to have more siblings for you. Brothers and sisters for you to play with. But we love you two, and you’re the most important thing in the world to us, and we don’t _need_ more children to be happy. It’s just going to take some getting used to… knowing that it’s not an option anymore.”

 

Daddy talks to me like I’m all grown up, which nobody ever does. Mummy does sometimes, but when she looks at me, I’m her baby. With daddy, I’m just his little girl. There is a difference.

 

I smile wide, showing him my teeth, and he kisses my forehead lovingly.

 

“B.D.E,” I say, which means best daddy ever.

 

“B.K.E,” he replies with a chuckle, telling me that I’m the best kid ever.

 

I love our traditions.

 

(OOO)

 

Diagon Alley is full of bright colors. It’s always a shock because mummy keeps the colors at home relatively calm and muted to create a “soothing environment” for when she gets over stressed at work. Daddy always calls it “strategizing” before fondly pressing a kiss against her nose and then her lips as she frowns at him.

 

They’re so icky sometimes.

 

James is tugging Al and me down the cobblestone streets, sprinting like a madman in order to get to Florean Fortescue’s faster. He probably would have gotten there faster without us, but Al and I are still trying to soak up the feeling of being surrounded by witches and wizards. Mummy and daddy and Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny don’t really like bringing us to the wizarding world. People always point at us and stare. James is old enough to have been here lots and lots of times, though, and he’s more excited for the ice cream.

 

As soon as we reach the shop, James hauls the door open and shoves himself through it. It’s a warm, crowded day in Diagon Alley, but daddy is just a few paces behind us, trying to run and keep himself looking normal to the other adults. He’s always the one that plays with us when we have Sunday dinners, but here he has to remain all “adulty,” which is his explanation for why he won’t wrestle with us in the street. Daddy acts just like us at Sunday dinners, letting us climb all over him and ride on his back like a horse. Sometimes Uncle George plays with us too, but only on his smiley days.

 

“You guys run fast,” daddy comments, closing his eyes against the wall of coolness coming from the inside of the shop. It smells like chocolate and ice cream in here; like hopes and dreams and dessert.

 

“Thanks,” James says, puffing out his chest proudly. He’s older than me and Al, but we still laugh at him lots. “But maybe you’re just slow, Uncle Ron.”

 

Daddy frowns

 

“You realize that I basically run for a living, right?”

 

James begins to shoot a comeback at daddy, but he immediately stops when the grin slides from daddy’s face. Al, James, and I all exchange confused looks when he skin turns pale and his eyes widen. On instinct, I follow his eyes to the magazine rack in the corner of the store.

 

**HAS THE SUN FINALLY SET ON THE GOLDEN DUO’S WHIRLWIND ROMANCE? EXCLUSIVE DETAILS ON HERMIONE WEASLEY’S SCANDALOUS AFFAIR WITH A COWORKER AND WHY SHE BETRAYED HER HUSBAND.**

 

It isn’t the first time that this has happened. James and Al see it too- after all, their parents are famous as well. The bedtime stories that we get are real, not made up fairy tales, and sometimes they’re really really scary but everybody else in the wizarding world has heard them too.

 

Still, it makes me sad to look at daddy’s face like that. No matter what anybody else says, he is always my first pick. He is the best daddy ever, and I wouldn’t replace him with anybody else’s daddy. I wriggle my hand away from James’ hand and give it to daddy instead, pressing my head into his side. James and Al looks on as he closes his eyes briefly before popping them open and lifting me into his arms to give me a giant hug. My feet dangle helplessly in the air, so much higher than I usually am, as he squeezes me tight, burying his face in my hair.

 

“Hey. I love you, Rosie.”

 

I giggle.

 

“Mummy loves you, daddy.”

 

“Yeah,” he nods, setting me down on the floor. “I know that. I know.”

 

Still, when we get home, I don’t miss the way daddy rushes into mummy’s study, leaving me trailing behind in the hallway.

 

“How was your-?” she begins, but then she stops talking. “Ron?” She asks after a few moments.

 

When I finally catch up to him, mummy is studying daddy’s expression with his face between her hands. She sighs heavily and wraps her arms around him, pressing his head against her so that she can comb her fingers through his hair.

 

“Fuck them,” she says, very loudly and clearly.

 

“Yeah,” daddy chuckles. “Sorry, Hermione. I know. Fuck them.”

 

(OOO)

 

“Daddy, what does fuck mean?”

 

He freezes with his pinky still hooked around the tiny little teacup that he’s been handing to my favorite doll. When he looks over at me, I tilt my head to the side and stare up at him. Daddy coughs loudly, then adjusts his pink cowgirl hat.

 

“Er. HERMIONE!”

 

(OOO)

 

Daddy decides that mummy has coddled me “for far too long” when I am seven and a half and have still never been up on a broom by myself. I’ve been on kiddie brooms, of course, but those don’t count because they don’t go very far off of the ground. Daddy bought me a middle aged kiddie broom when I was five, one that took you even _higher_ than regular kiddie brooms, but mummy was horrified as she watched me float with my feet just above her head.

 

“She’s afraid of heights,” daddy tells me when I ask why James and Al have already started flying and I have not. “Sometimes seeing people way up high triggers a really scary reaction in your mum, and even though it frustrates you, you have to understand that it is only because she loves you. You’re her baby.”

 

“I’m not a baby,” I remind him, brows furrowing stubbornly. “Hugo is a baby.”

 

Hugo isn’t really a baby anymore, either, but I don’t say that and daddy doesn’t either.

 

One Saturday morning, when mummy is spending the day with Auntie Luna, daddy wakes me up as soon as she leaves and hands me my Holyhead Harpies t-shirt that has Aunt Ginny’s number on it.

 

“Wake up, Rosie,” he sings in my ear. “You’re gonna fly today.”

 

I’m out of bed so fast that he asks me if I’ve apparated, causing me to stick my tongue out at him before rushing to the bathroom to brush my teeth.

 

The grass is the color of Uncle Harry’s eyes as it blankets the ground. My feet settle in it over and over again as I bounce up and down, so excited to finally be able to touch the blue sky like daddy and Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny and James and Al and Uncle Bill and Uncle George and Aunt Angelina do when they play Quidditch at family dinners. Maybe I’ll even be allowed to play with them when I’m bigger.

 

Daddy hands me his old broom, the really nice one that Uncle Harry got him as a birthday present way before I was born. Daddy’s gotten a more updated broom since then, but he hasn’t been able to throw out the one that Uncle Harry gave him.

 

“We’ll get you your own before you go to Hogwarts,” he promises. “A cleansweep. Easy to handle. Not too expensive, so mummy won’t flip out when you crash.”

 

He’s amazing. He thinks of everything.

 

Daddy shows me the right way to hold my hands over the broom for ‘athletic flying’ versus the hand positions for more casual flying. He has his own broom, so when he slings a leg over it, I put my leg over mine just like he did. When he pushes his foot off from the ground, I do the same without a second thought.

 

One minute, my bare feet are touching grass, and the next, they’re floating freely through the air. In my shock, I lean forward to try to see the ground, but the motion causes the broom to go faster and I find myself zipping around our backyard. It’s covered by a thin lining of trees, but if mum were here she’d probably be panicking about random muggles seeing us. The same cannot be said for daddy, who flies after me, whooping and hollering with glee.

 

“That’s it, Rosie!” he yells, the biggest grin I’ve ever seen stretched out across his face as he knocks his closed fist against the surface of the sky. I let out a delighted screech and zoom towards him.

 

Nothing that I’ve ever done has felt this perfect.

 

(OOO)

 

The terrier has the prettiest fur I’ve ever seen.

 

Prettier than Crookshanks Jr’s fur, which is really fluffy and soft but also messy and tangled and he doesn’t let you pet it anyways. Crookshanks Jr’s fur is orange, which normally would make daddy happy, but he hates cats. That’s why he’s been trying to get mummy to get a dog ever since Hugo was two. It took him a few years and one piece of parenting blackmail, but now we’re all standing in front of a white terrier with a tale that is trembling with excitement as he looks up at daddy.

 

“I think he’s in love, Ron,” says mummy, her voice dry.

 

“Hi, boy!” daddy coos, ignoring this. “Hi! Hello!”

 

He runs his large hands across the puppy’s soft head, scratching him behind the ear. Immediately, the puppy lies down and rolls over, opening his stomach to dad. Mum rolls her eyes.

 

“Really,” she scoffs. “That’s just ridiculous.”

 

“Can we have this one, Mione?” daddy pleads, turning around to face mummy with his eyes wider than usual.

 

“You just like him because your patronus is a terrier,” mum points out, lowering her voice at the word patronus so that the other people at the pound can’t hear it.

 

“That’s not true!” daddy argues. “I like him because he’s adorable.”

 

“I like him too,” I pipe in, flashing daddy a smile. He beams back.

 

Mummy rolls her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest.

  
“Well, of course you would, sweetpea.”

 

“Please!” I say.

 

“Pwease!” Hugo echoes.

  
“ _Please_!” daddy pouts.

 

“Fine,” mummy grumbles, allowing daddy to throw his arm around her and kiss her wetly on the cheek as Hugo and I dance around their feet.

 

“Stop pretending to hate this,” daddy tells her, eyes sparkling. “I saw the way you looked at that dog. You think he’s cute.”

 

“I think that the man petting him is cute.”

 

“Oh, you’ll see, Hermione. You’re going to come around to Otter in no time.”

 

“Otter?”

 

“Otter.”

 

(OOO)

 

“Mummy? Daddy? I had a nightmare.”

 

I’ve already opened their bedroom door when I say it, but I knocked before then, so I’m sure that I’m being polite. Mum and daddy blink at the light that leaks in from the hallway, highlighting my face. While mum puts her head against the pillows after she sees me, apparently not sure whether or not she is dreaming, daddy keeps his head up and gestures me into the room. Happiness spilling over the darkness from my nightmare, I close the door behind me before running up to the bed and hopping onto it. I settle myself in my place on the bed, right between mum and daddy.

 

Mummy is being lurred back to sleep, but she wraps an arm around me and strokes my arm three times before she starts sleeping again. Daddy laughs fondly as he sees me snuggle into her side.

 

“Are you okay, Rosie?” he yawns. I can see his blue eyes through the darkness; that’s how vivid they are.

 

In response, I reach up and trace his long nose, running my finger across the bump near the top. I wish that I had inherited his Weasley nose so that everybody would know that he’s my daddy, but I got mum’s nose. It’s smaller and cuter, and I do have daddy’s hair, but it’s not the same.

 

“I’m fine,” I sigh. “It was just really scary. There was a dragon and giant spiders.”

 

“You dreamed my first two years of Hogwarts?” daddy jokes, causing me to laugh. I stifle my giggles by stuffing my small fist into my mouth. “I’m sorry that you had to dream about that, love. I hope you have sweeter dreams when you fall back asleep.”

 

I can hear how tired he is in his voice, so I nod, allow him to kiss my forehead, and then watch as he succombs to sleep again. I fall back asleep to the lullaby of his snores.

 

(OOO)

 

“Daddy, can we go get _ice cream_ for dinner?” I sing, running into the house. I’m covered in mud from playing outside and Hugo, padding inside at my heels, isn’t faring much better. Daddy takes one look at the two of us and lets his mouth fall open comically.

 

“Does… does your mum let you get this messy when she’s home?” he asks, a fearful lilt in his voice. Hugo and I exchange glances.

 

“She’s not here, dad,” I say. “She’s at a confer...thing. Remember?”

 

“But,” he protests, “just because she’s at a conference, doesn’t mean that you can run around in the mud and have ice cream for dinner. Right?”

 

“Not necessarily,” I say, shaking my head. “It’s all about what you choose to do as our darling, loving father and our favorite parent.”

 

He glances over his shoulder like a magical parenting fairy is going to be standing over his shoulder and telling him what to do. When nobody is there but him, he turns back to me and Hugo, looking up at him with pleading eyes. For a moment, he seems on the edge. Then he deflates and grabs his house keys.

  
“Don’t tell mum,” he whispers, opening the door to the house.

 

(OOO)

 

I hate it when he leaves.

 

He leaves all the time. More than my classmates’ mummies and daddies, I think. Mummy says that it’s normal, and that it’s not because he doesn’t love me and Hugo.

 

“Actually,” she says as she tucks me in, not doing it nearly as well as daddy does it, “it’s because he loves you and Hugh so much that he wants to make sure that the world is safe for you two to be in. And me. And Otter, and Aunt Ginny, and Nana Molly and Grandpa Arthur. And that’s why he goes away all the time.”

 

But the house seems lonely and sad when he’s gone. Otter spends most of his time curled up on the bottom stair, watching the door and waiting for daddy to come through it so that Otter can finally abandon his post. Mum tucks me in just fine, but she’s always a bit _stranger_ when daddy isn’t around. Aunt Ginny says that she misses him, and that she’s full of stress that gets worse when there aren’t two people to take care of me and Hugo. But I think it’s more than that. I think that daddy being gone sets everybody’s teeth on edge because there’s always a chance that he might not come back.

 

James and Al always seem to be itchy when Uncle Harry goes out on missions, and usually they’re gone together, so our families spend a lot of time together. Aunt Ginny is able to stay at home when she writes her articles, but mum goes to work everyday, leaving us at Aunt Ginny’s or Nana’s when she can’t get us from school.

 

In general, daddy brings an air of ease that we don’t have without him. When he walks through the door after a long-term mission, we can feel the color and light that spreads through the house as soon as he walks in. Life doesn’t stop when he’s gone, but sometimes it seems to, and we’re so relieved when he’s here again. In spite of the fact that he’s got bruises on his face and cuts that are way too close to his eye, we still are relieved when laughter rings through the house again.

 

(OOO)

 

I like playing with the white pieces in chess. Daddy’s favorite set to play with is the one that mummy gave them as a present for their first anniversary as a married couple. The knight is engraved with the date of their wedding on the bottom, as is the castle. It’s an expensive chess set, with heavy, smooth pieces that feel important and weighty when they’re between your fingers. Playing with the white pieces causes me to feel as though I am playing for the innocent team; the pure one; the one that might be a bit more inexperienced but has a lot of heart. Mummy says that heart is one of the most important things you can have- more important than smarts or talents or skills. She always looks over at daddy when she says it, even when she’s talking to me, and it makes him turn red.

 

During chess, I have heart, but daddy has skill. He barely has to pay attention to beat me. He can be reading a book out loud to mum, stirring the soup, and playing a game of chess with me and _still_ beat me. Uncle Harry always groans loudly whenever daddy wins, lifting his bright green eyes up to the ceiling.

 

“For the love of god, Ron. Let your daughter win just once.”

 

“Can’t do that, mate,” daddy usually says, shaking his head. “She’ll never learn if she doesn’t keep getting squashed.”

 

“We don’t believe in raising our children that way,” mum will add if she’s there. “Rose and Hugo need to learn skills on their own. They’ll never become properly educated, or even learn how to be hard workers, if Ron and I continuously coddle them and give them everything that they want.”

 

I like it best when mummy and Uncle Harry aren’t there and it’s just daddy focusing on playing chess with me. I like the cold winter evenings when Hugo has a playdate and mummy is working late. Then, daddy and I grab blankets and tea and make a fort out of pillows and wrap ourselves in the blankets and play games of chess, just the two of us. Chess is ours. Daddy says that he’s going to make me so good that I can beat everybody in the entire universe except for him.

 

I don’t know why I’d ever want to play anybody who isn’t my dad.

 

(OOO)

 

I’ve only been crying for two minutes when the door to my bedroom is thrown unceremoniously open. Daddy, looking completely frazzled, is wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a blue pajama top, his hair rumpled with sleep. 

 

“Rosie?” comes his panicked voice, and when he sees me sobbing, his expression becomes even more terrified. “What’s wrong, love?”

 

I don’t answer, just keep crying, so he strides over to me in just a few steps and then has me caught up in his arms. He rocks me back and forth as I cross my legs on top of his legs and bury my face in his well-worn shirt.

  
“Shhhh,” he says soothingly, stroking my hair. “Shhh. It’s okay. Tell me what’s wrong and I’m gonna fix it for you.”

 

“B-b-b-beth!”

 

“Beth? Who’s Beth, honey?”

 

“S-s-she _died_!”

 

Dad looks startled.

 

“One of your friends died?”

 

“No!” I shake my head vigorously. “Beth. F-from _Little Women_. She died!”

 

Frowning, dad lets his hand pat all around my bed until he finally finds the book.

 

“Rose!” (I cry harder.) “We told you not to read after we turn your light off!”

  
“I r-really liked t-the b-book!”

 

“Well, obviously it didn’t like you back.”

 

“THAT’S NOT FUNNY!”

  
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry.”

 

He holds me until I stop crying, letting my wails turn to sniffles as I wipe my nose over and over again on his t-shirt. He doesn’t seem to mind at all. Just sits there silently, holding onto me and stroking my back. Mum comes in around 2 o’clock in the morning, just when I’m starting to float in and out of a sleepy haze. I don’t open my eyes for her, but I can picture her when I hear her voice, standing with her white dressing robe over her light purple pajama bottoms, her hair bushier than usual.

 

“Is everything okay?” she asks through a yawn. I feel daddy’s nod as it moves across my scalp.

 

“She’s just fine,” he says, trailing a thumb across my cheek. “I can’t believe you gave her that book.”

 

“What book?”

 

“The one where Beth dies.”

 

Mum sounds surprised.

 

“Oh, _Little Women_? That’s a classic. It’s high time she read it.”

 

“It made her cry!”

 

“Lots of things are going to make her cry, Ron. No use shielding her from it. We might as well allow her to embrace her pain now so that she doesn’t hide from it later on. It will make her a much healthier person. And Merlin knows that neither of her parents are very good at accepting their feelings.”

 

“That’s a good point.”

 

“I know.”

 

There’s silence for a few moments.

 

“Hey Hermione?”

 

His voice is playful.

 

“Yes, sweetheart?”

 

“I accept the fact that I’m in love with you every single day.”

 

“I love you too, Ron.” Pause. “Now come back to bed. It’s cold in there without you.”

 

“I’ll be right in,” he says, voice warm. “Just gotta tuck in Rosie.”

 

(OOO)

 

The knock on my door comes when the shouting reaches its peak. I tip-toe over to it, not wanting to create any excess noise that could cause the screaming to escalate even more. When my fingers twist around the doorknob, I try to pull it open as subtly as I possibly can. Reaching out, I grasp Hugo by the shirt and tug him into my room.

 

“Should we go downstairs?” he whispers to me, but I shake my head.

 

“Hugh, I’ve been dealing with their fights for way longer than you have. You just have to put on headphones, close your eyes, and let them battle it out. They’re only on stage two right now, in any case. They can’t be spoken to until post stage three or else they start using us as pawns in their arguing and sometimes the argument doesn’t evolve naturally and in that case they fight for _days_.”

 

He looks scared for a second, expression nervous and antsy, like he’s afraid of stepping out of place and afraid of staying still all at the same time.

 

“It’s just fight night, Hugo. It’s not a big deal. It happens.”

 

Hugo finds his way onto my bed, lifting himself onto it and wrapping himself in the comforter. He squeezes the top sheet tightly in his hand.

 

“What do you think they’re fighting about?”

 

“I don’t know,” I shrug. “It’s probably mum’s fault.”

 

“Why couldn’t it be dad’s fault?”

 

“Nothing is ever dad’s fault,” I say, but Hugo just frowns, confused.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t know. He’s dad. He’s all funny and smart and fast and orange.”

 

“Well then… what’s mum?”

 

“Not dad,” I laugh, ruffling his hair.

 

The fighting gets louder downstairs.

 

(OOO)

 

“Are you ready for this?”

 

I push a lock of hair behind my ear and offer dad a small, nervous smile as he stands underneath the tree that I’m perched in. The setting sun creates a sort of halo around his head, causing me to roll my eyes fondly. Daddy holds his hand out to me, so I turn around and climb down the tree, coming closer to him like he wants.

 

“I’m gonna miss you so much,” I admit, wrapping my arms around his waist. “What am I going to do without you?”

 

“You’re going to be perfect,” he reminds me, kissing the top of my head before pushing me back and holding me at arm’s length. “You’re Rose Weasley. You were born to go to Hogwarts.”

 

“That’s it?” I tease. “That’s all I was born for?”

 

We stroll across the yard and find ourselves on the back porch, where daddy has set down ice cream sundaes for the both of us. He knows me so well.

  
“Hmmm… also to be a physical representation of my undying love for your mother, but other than that… yes. Hogwarts.”

 

I giggle, the sound familiar. I spend so many of my days and evenings laughing with my dad. I don’t know what I’m going to do now that I’m going to be so far away from him. Being away from mum doesn’t seem nearly as frightening as being away from daddy. He’s my best friend in the whole entire universe.

 

“I’m not going to be able to live up to you, you know.”

 

Dad’s spoon pauses midway to his mouth.

 

“What are you talking about?”

 

“You did the coolest things at school, dad. And I’m just… not that. Like, I’m smart. And I’m good as chess and I’m okay at Quidditch. But I don’t want to have to face giant spiders. And I don’t think I’ll ever have a chance to save the entire wizarding world. I want to make you proud, but I don’t really know how to do that and I don’t think that I can.”

 

He releases a stream of air, long and loud. Then he stretches his arms over his head, links his hands, and braces them behind his head.

 

“Rosie, your mother and I did everything that we possibly could to make you feel the opposite of what you’re telling me that you feel. We don’t want you to have the childhood that we had. It was scary and dark and… _lacking_. Mum and I didn’t get to do anything that we wanted to do, really, because we were too busy trying to keep Uncle Harry from biting the bullet. We want to live vicariously through you. If you’re going to impress us, it’s going to be by… I don’t know… joining the chess club or playing Quidditch. That’s what we want for you. A nice, normal day at school in which all you have to worry about is tests and quizzes and remembering to have tea with Hagrid and remembering not to call Professor Longbottom ‘Uncle Neville’ in front of the other kids.”

 

Relief floods through me as I draw my knees up to my chest, shaking my head.

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Yes. And I expect letters about how gloriously mundane your life is.”

 

“Mundane,” I repeat, scooping some ice cream into my mouth. “I can shoot for that. Yeah.”

 

(OOO)

 

Daddy makes me chocolate chip pancakes on my first Sunday back from Christmas break. They smile up at me as I sit in my kitchen for the first time since September first. I pour him coffee and he pours me orange juice and mum crosses her arms over her chest and shakes her head and seems so brightly happy as Otter dances around her feet.

 

(OOO)

 

Hogsmeade is beautiful in October. The entire place looks like it’s on fire from all of the leaves being enchanted to glow. It’s probably even more beautiful at night, but we have to go back to the castle at five, so none of us are going to be able to see it. Still, I might ask mum and dad to take a picture for me.

 

When I duck into The Three Broomsticks, they’re already in there, seated at one of the tables. For a moment, I stare at them, my breath catching in my throat. Their hands are in the middle of the table, heads pressed together. They fight and yell and scream about the stupidest things in the world until the pictures fall off the walls, but I’ve never seen to people who love each other so fervently. They’re so thankful for each other, and I’m grateful for that. I’ve missed them so much and it’s only been a month.

 

As soon as mum sees me, she nudges dad, who twists his neck around so that he can see me.

 

“Rosie!” he crows delightedly, getting out of his chair. “Hi!”

 

“Hi!” I squeal, rushing at the two of them. I nearly knock daddy over with the force with which I hug him. “How are you? Have you missed me?”

 

“Desperately,” mum laughs, wrapping her arm around me so that she can pull my head to her and give me a kiss on its red crown. Daddy says that mum was bad with showing affection in public before me and Hugo were born, but as soon as she realized how much she loved us, she suddenly became ‘handsy.’ She always kisses him to shut him up when he starts telling that story.

  
“Where’s Hugh?” I inquire as I take off my scarf, letting the red and gold drape over the back of my chair.

  
“We decided to leave him with Lily and Aunt Ginny for the day,” mum informs me, picking up her reading glasses and placing them delicately on her nose.

 

“That way we could focus all of our attention on you,” dad says warmly, shooting a wink in my direction.

  
There’s already a butterbeer on the table for me. I pick it up and lift it to my lips, sighing in delight at how warm it is. The foam sticks to my top lip when I take a sip and I happily lick it off. The school has butterbeer bottles sometimes, and dad brings them home on special occasions, but it’s not the same without the foam. The foam is the best part.

 

“Oh look,” mum says, setting down her tea. “It’s Madam Rosmerta’s daughter. I think she runs the place now.”

 

“Madam Rosmerta?” I frown, confused. Mum’s eyes twinkle as she glances over at dad, teasing him mercilessly.

 

“Your father fancied her when we were kids.”

 

“That’s a lie. I fancied _you_ when we were kids.”

 

“But he thought that Madam Rosmerta was pretty before he ever thought I was pretty.”

 

“Your mother is being ridiculous,” daddy tells me, turning towards me with a very serious face. “She is the only woman I have ever been attracted to in my entire life.”

 

The two of us begin laughing at the same time while dad gazes on, befuddled. Mum pats dad’s arm.

 

“You can’t erase the past, Ronald Weasley,” mum reminds him.

 

“But I can ignore it, Hermione Weasley.” Dad punctuates the sentence with coughs. “Now. Who wants more butterbeer?”

 

(OOO)

 

“Are you going to sit with Hugo on the train tomorrow?”

 

I cock my head at dad.

 

“Why? Is he worried about finding someone to sit with?”  


Dad takes a moment to answer, swerving slightly to the left on his broom as he does so. I take the time to close my eyes and lean into the turn, feeling weightless for just a few moments. Mum always wordlessly hands me a hair tie when we go flying, but right now it is resting impotently on my wrist. I love feeling the way the wind slides through the strands of my hair.

 

“He hasn’t said anything to me, but it’s his first day of school. He doesn't know what House he’s going to be in or who he’s going to sit with at the feast. It might be nice to offer to sit with him, just to give him something familiar. Everything changes awfully fast the first time you go to Hogwarts.”

 

I tilt my broom higher, thinking that I’m being discreet, but dad catches on immediately and echoes the action.

 

“I remember,” I sigh. “When did you get to be so thoughtful, anyways?”

 

“It’s always been my way.”

 

“Yeah right!” I guffaw. I fly close enough to him so that I can knock him playfully on the shoulder. We slow down a little bit in our flight, just savoring the dying sunlight. “So are you and mum ready to be empty-nesters?”

 

“Ugh.” He pulls a face. “Stop. Now we sound so old.”

 

“Technically, you won’t be empty-nesters until Hugo and I graduate. But in essence, it’s just a giant vacation from being parents.”

 

“That does sound nice,” dad concedes, only teasing a little bit. “There’s nothing to fuck up while you two are at school, is there?”

 

I give him a delighted smile. He so rarely swears in front of me, but I love it when he does. It makes me feel like I’m an adult, and like he trusts me. I know for a fact that he has an extremely dirty mouth that he attempts to tame in front of me and Hugh, causing him to have to let it fly at work. Good thing Uncle Harry is his boss.

 

Mum never swears in front of the two of us either, but that’s just because she’s way too prissy to let the word ‘fuck’ ever fall from her lips.

 

“No, just your relationship with mum.”

 

“Ouch,” he says, miming stabbing himself with a knife. “Ye of little faith.”

 

“You can’t go two minutes without arguing about… I don’t know… codfish.”

 

“Codfish? Who argues about codfish?”

 

“EXACTLY!”

 

We turn around and fly off towards the house, where mum and Hugo are sitting on the front porch. They look up and wave to us as we approach, and mum stands as our feet touch the ground. Without saying anything, dad sweeps her into his arms and gives her a kiss on the lips.

 

Hugo and I have both learned to ignore behavior like this. I shoulder my broom, then walk over to him and give him a sisterly nuggie.

 

“Hey Hugh?”

 

“What?” he asks, squinting up at me with mistrustful brown eyes. Neither of us got dad’s eyes. It still pisses mum off.

 

“Do you want to sit with me on the train tomorrow?”

 

Something like relief floods into his expression.

 

He shrugs.

 

“I guess. If I have to.”

 

I pat his head.

 

“You have to.”

 

“Fine then.”

 

(OOO)

 

The house is weirdly dark in the middle of the night. I hold my breath as I pass my parent’s bedroom, then yawn widely as I tip-toe down the stairs. There aren’t any lights on in any of the hallways and I know that I shouldn’t turn them on or else I’ll disturb the others. And it’s not their fault that I can’t sleep.

 

When I pass mum’s office, I notice a light under the door. Thinking that she just forgot to turn it off, something uncharacteristic except for during weeks that are so busy she becomes certifiably loony, I open the door to correct her mistake. But the room isn’t empty- dad is sitting in mum’s large, comfortable chair, his eyes trained on a Quidditch magazine.

 

“What are you doing?” I gasp, caught off guard. He looks up, shocked too, to see me standing at the door with my hand over my thudding heart.

 

“Sorry!” dad exclaims quickly. “Sorry. I just couldn’t sleep and I didn’t want to wake anybody up.”

 

“Same here,” I admit.

 

He looks concerned.

 

“You couldn’t sleep? Is everything alright?”

 

“Everything’s fine,” I shrug. “I can never sleep the first week back for summer hols. Everything is so hectic in the castle, and then I come home and it’s quiet and dark and there’s only four people and even the neighbors seem so far away that they’re on a different planet.”

 

Dad closes his magazine and pushes himself enthusiastically from his chair.

 

“C’mon, Rosie. We’re going to the kitchen.”

 

I chuckle and follow him, shaking my head comically.

 

“Because the answer is always in the kitchen.”

 

He tugs out for slices of bread and the leftover ham and mashed potatoes from dinner. He spreads the potato on bread, places the ham on top of it, and puts mustard over it. Then, grinning madly at his own kitchen prowess, he presents me with the sandwich.

 

“Enjoy,” he says, grabbing bread to fix his own sandwich.

 

I look down at mine.

 

“I’m pretty sure this is going to be disgusting.”

 

He looks up at me, beaming, as he takes a bite of some of mum’s ham.

 

“Take a risk, Rosie,” he chuckles.

 

Because I love him and he’s my dad, I eat every crumb.

 

(OOO)

 

Scorpius Malfoy’s hair falls into his eyes when he laughs.

 

I like looking at his eyes, blue but in a different way than I’m used to. His eyes are gray, actually, but they have bits of blue in them depending on how the light reflects against them. Mostly, they’re gray when we’re inside the castle and blue when we’re outside, playing Quidditch or attending Care of Magical Creatures with Hagrid. And his hair is a pretty color too; blonde like white gold. There’s something decadent about it, something that doesn’t belong in the Hogwarts uniform because he’s too _pretty_ for that.

 

But nevertheless, when we get partnered in Potions, he rolls up the sleeves of his Hogwarts uniform and shoots me a small smirk when my eyes linger just a little too long on the motion.

 

“Are you ready?” he asks. There’s something silly about his voice- maybe it’s because we’re both fifteen years old. But it looks like he’s going to have this really sexy, seductive voice and then when he talks, there’s nothing really special about how he sounds. He’s just a boy.

 

“Let’s do this,” I agree, giving him a small smile, and even though dad told me not to become too friendly with him, I can’t help but think that this boy seems utterly and completely harmless. “Are you good at Potions?”

 

He gets some octopus powder from his bag and begins measuring it carefully into the potion.

 

“Pretty good, yeah,” he says, nodding at me seriously. “If you feel the need to slack off and let me do all the work, I can probably do that.”

 

“I bet you say that to all your Potions partners,” I mock, scooping a fairy wing carefully into my hand in order to drop it into the base of the potion. “No, I don’t need any of that. Thanks, though.”

 

“I know,” he admits, scratching awkwardly at his eyebrow with a long, slender finger. “You’re smart.”

 

“I guess,” I reply, confused.

 

“You are,” Scorpius insists. “I’ve seen you in class. You can run circles around almost all of the idiots we go to school with.”

 

“Thank you.” I’m genuinely touched. I haven’t had very many one-on-one conversations with Scorpius Malfoy, but I have watched him. From what I’ve seen of him in groups, he’s a bit of a goofball with a broody side that will kick in at random, mostly appearing when nobody sees it coming. But he’s not usually this genuine, and it kind of throws me for a loop. “I get my smarts from my mum.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You do?”

 

“The magazines call her the brightest witch of her age. So… yes. She’s kind of a big deal.”

 

“I know,” I say, “but to me she’s the woman that yells at me to clean my room and just happens to have helped defeat the greatest Dark Lord of her time at the age of eighteen.”

 

“And my dad is known as the coward who couldn’t do the same.”

 

I raise my eyebrows immediately, surprised. When I look up, his eyes are directly on me. Trying to break the tension of the moment, I glance down at the watch that isn’t resting on my wrist.

 

“We’re diving into the seriousness awfully early, aren’t we? I was expecting at least ten more minutes of casual banter before we hopped right into the deepset emotional issues of our respective childhoods.”

 

“You have deepset emotional issues?” Scorpius laughs. “Rose Weasley? The golden girl? Please.”

 

For a moment, I want to protest, offended that he would suppose that my life isn’t perfect. My mouth opens to correct him, but I snap it shut after a few seconds, unable to figure out what to say.

 

“Okay. I guess I don’t exactly have daddy issues like some people I know.”

 

“No, I guess you don’t.”

 

"My dad is my best friend in the world. He’s the best person I’ve ever known.”

 

He’s quiet for a second.

 

“People always seem to forget your dad. Do you ever notice that? He’s always third in the articles about ‘the golden trio.’ Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and then Ron Weasley.”

 

“And whenever there’s something in the newspapers and magazines about one of my parents having an affair, it’s always my mum. Like people don’t think that dad is capable of making her happy so they have to make stuff up about him making her sad.”

 

“Yeah, exactly.”

 

“I notice that. Why do you notice that?”

 

Scorpius contemplates this as he mashes a Plimpy eye.

 

“I’m not really sure. I like the idea of being brave like that, I think. But if I did it, I wouldn’t do it for notoriety like your mum got, or like Harry Potter got. I wouldn’t even do it to clear my dad’s name. He made his own choices and even though he’s spent a long time trying to redeem himself, there’s always going to be a stigma attached to who he is. I just think that I want to prove to myself that I’m not like he was when he was my age… and that’s going to be enough.”

 

Something strange tugs at my stomach.

 

“You can prove it to me too,” I say, voice serious.

 

The cocky smirk starts to stretch across his face again.

 

“Maybe I will, Rose Weasley.”

 

(OOO)

 

“I fancy someone,” I whisper one night when mum and I are cleaning the kitchen. She turns around and leans against the counter, eyes widening curiously.

 

“Feel free to elaborate, sweetpea.” Trying to hype the drama of the situation, I adjust my heavy jumper to make sure that it sits just right on my body, then smooth out my trousers.  “Rose!” mum protests.

 

“You’re acting a bit too girly to really be my mum,” I joke. “Have you met her? Hermione Weasley? Smart, sensible, and never gets hysterical about teenage boys?”

 

“Obviously you weren’t around in the mid nineties,” mum snorts.

 

“Mum!”

 

“Sorry!” she chuckles. “I’m just excited. The person I made fancies another person. It’s a big deal.”

 

In the other room, Hugo lets out a loud, angry groan. Dad has just beat him at another round of chess. This is unsurprising. Poor Hugh never really got the knack for it. Mum and I exchange exasperated glances as dad begins his pattented gloat song. Otter harmonizes.

 

“So his name,” I say. “You’re not going to like it.”

 

Mum neatly arches an eyebrow. She reaches up to tie her hair back, tilting her head contemplatively to the side as she tries to guess who it is before I say it.

 

“Alright, I’m out. Who is he, Rose?”

 

“Scorpius Malfoy.”

 

For a moment, she just stares at me. Then she bursts into laughter.

 

“Mum?”

 

“You’re kidding! You’ve got to be kidding me!”

 

“Um, nope?”

 

“Oh, Rose, my love. On your first day of school, your father told you _one name_ that you weren’t allowed to get friendly with. And you still managed to do it. It’s kind of poetic, when you really think about it. You played right into fate’s hands.”

 

My stomach begins to churn nervously.

 

“He… he wasn’t serious about me not getting too close to Scorpius, right? He was just joking.”

 

Mum shoots me an odd look.

 

“You’ve grown up with this man, right?”

 

“I would assume so.”

 

“You’ve been living with him for nearly sixteen years, right?”

 

“You’d know that better than I would.”

 

“Rose. He was not joking. I mean, he was joking. But he wasn’t joking.”

 

“Oh god.”  


Mum nods dramatically.

 

“Oh god,” she confirms.

 

(OOO)

 

Scorpius Malfoy kisses me for the first time after we beat against his House in Quidditch. I’m striding backwards down the hallway, facing him as I walk, talking loudly about my House’s victory over his uselessSlytherin team, basking in the friendship that we’ve built. And he’s just looking at me with this _look_ on his face, so I stop walking, but he keeps on walking. And he walks right up to me and kisses me right on the mouth.

 

That night, after we finish snogging and tell each other that we are definitely going to be snogging again, I go up to my dorm a write a long letter detailing what has just happen. I seal it, write _Hermione Weasley_ on the back, and tie it to the leg of Hugo’s owl.

 

I had sworn that I was going to tell dad every single mundane detail of my life, but this isn’t the kind of thing that I can say to him. He doesn’t want to hear about the details of my love life or the fact that I’m pretty sure I just began a relationship with the son of the man who tortured mum and dad when they were at school.

 

But Scorpius isn’t the same person as his father. And just because he’s in Slytherin, it doesn’t mean that he’s bad. Whatever his family has done in the past isn’t his fault, and dad just needs to understand that. But he’s not going to be rational about it while I’m at school. When I get home, I’ll explain everything that he needs to know. I’ll argue my point. I’ll win. Right now, though, I have mum sworn to secrecy, as well as every single cousin that is residing in the school building.

 

What daddy doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

 

(OOO)

 

Professor Longbottom tells him.

 

I used to call Professor Longbottom Uncle Neville, of course, but now that he has totally and completely betrayed my trust, we are on more professional terms. Professor Longbottom had _no idea_ that Scorpius and I weren’t telling my father, apparently. He had gone out for drinks with his mates, gotten slightly smashed, and spilled the secret to my father.

 

My father, Ronald Weasley.

 

Ronald Weasley, who nearly drove Uncle Harry to insanity because he thought that asking out Aunt Ginny would mean _death_ for him.

 

Ronald Weasley, who went missing for twelve hours when mum found out that she was pregnant with me.

 

Ronald Weasley, who trains every single day with the finest aurors in England.

 

Nice going, Uncle Neville.

 

Mum sends me a letter warning me that he knows. Dad and mum always send their letters together, but there are two for Hugo and only one for me. When I realize that I probably won’t be getting a single piece of writing from my father, I cry into Scorpius’ shirt for an hour. He strokes my back and doesn’t really know what to do, but I guess it’s enough.

 

I guess.

 

The day that we get off the train, I make sure to kiss Scorpius right in front of my father, wanting to know that he isn’t bothering me with his angry looks and his radio-silence. I can deal with this. As soon as I let go of Scorpius’ hand, I go over to mum to hug her. She wraps her arms around me tightly.

 

“He’ll come around,” she whispers in my ear.

 

The ride home is restrained at best. Hugo and I are mute, not wanting to say anything that will upset dad, whose knuckles are white on the wheel. Mum, on the other hand, chatters aimlessly about things that are probably really important in the grand scheme of the greater wizarding government, but to us completely arbitrary. It works to effectively fill the void of sound in the car.

 

Dad sits down in front of the chessboard as soon as we arrive at the house. He raises his eyebrows at me, eyes flicking from me to the chessboard. Mum and I exchange exasperated glances before she clears her throat loudly.

 

“Hugo and I are going to visit his grandfather. We’ll be back in an hour.”

 

“Mum,” I say, grabbing her arm before she can leave. “I might need you here to protect me from dad’s wrath.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Rose. He let Harry marry Ginny, didn’t he? Anything can happen.”

 

She bops me on the nose once before she leaves.

 

Squaring my shoulders importantly, I make my way over to the seat in front of the chessboard. I plop myself onto it with as much dignity as I possibly can. Dad lets me be white. I know that I have to talk first.

 

“I know that you don’t like his family.”

 

“They’re Death Eaters!”

 

“ _Were_ Death Eaters,” I protest smoothly, making my move. “They aren’t anymore. Anybody with Death Eater ideals is in prison. Everybody else has reformed. People have moved on.”

 

“It’s fine that the Malfoys are moving on. I just don’t want them _moving on_ with my daughter,” dad growls. “They aren’t good people, Rosie. You’re a good person.”

 

“Well, they aren’t going to be able to tarnish that. I’m a Weasley, through and through. Dating a Malfoy doesn’t change that.”

“Do his parents know that he’s dating a Weasley?”

 

He instructs his pawn to move a bit more violently than usual and the pawn gives him an annoyed glare before moving along his way.

 

“They do know.” My tone is calm; removed, even. I’m taking several of my mother’s cues. “Scorpius told them as soon as we got together.”

 

“And?”

 

“And they think that it’s wonderful.”

 

“Even Draco?”

 

Dad says his name like it’s a swear.

 

“I’m not really sure how much convincing his wife had to do to get him to be happy about it, but yes. He’s fine with it.”

 

At this point, we drop all pretense of playing chess.

 

“You’re too young to date.”

 

“Dad! Come on! I’m sixteen!”

 

“Are you going to marry him?”

 

“Dad. Come on. I’m sixteen.”

 

“Do I have to talk to him?”

 

“Never.”

 

“Do you have to talk about him?”

 

“Only when it suits me.”

 

“He’s going to break your heart.”

 

“I know. We’re going to deal with that when it comes.”

 

He stares at me. I stare at him.

 

“Your move,” dad says. His eyes are colder than usual.

 

I look down at the board. I make my move.

 

“Checkmate,” I say, getting out of my chair and walking up the stairs to my bedroom.

 

It’s the first time I ever beat him at chess.

 

(OOO)

 

The Christmas of my sixth year, my entire family suddenly seems to want to know what I’m choosing to do with my life.

 

“You’ve got all these accolades to your name,” Auntie Audrey points out, tapping her red nails against her chin. She’s never had red nails before. I think she’s trying to make herself seem younger. “Your marks, your parents, your status as a prefect… and you’re most certainly going to be Head Girl-”

 

“Thank you?”

 

“-so what do you see yourself doing with all of these things?”

 

“Oh. Um. I’m not really sure?”

 

She lets out an airy laugh.

 

“Oh, so sorry, dear. Let me try to phrase this in another way, so that it’ll seem a little less daunting. How are you, Rose Weasley, planning on making your mark on the world?”

 

I stare at her, wordless.

 

“Let her be!” Aunt Fleur swooshes dramatically into the room, Aunt Angelina trailing behind her. “She’s just a child!”

 

“She’s nearly seventeen!” Auntie Audrey refutes. “Her life is starting and she needs to leap onto the train before it leaves the station.”

 

“I’m not sure if comparing her to a train-riding hobo is the proper metaphor for choosing a successful career, Audrey,” Uncle George points out in the corner of the room. I look over at him and he winks at me, a weak smile crossing his face. He seems tired. Christmas is always difficult for him. For everyone.

 

“I second that,” dad says, striding into the room. “Hey Rosie, wanna go for a walk?”

 

“Sure!” I say, jumping at the chance.

 

I dash into the coatroom that had been added to the side of the house when it became apparent that the Weasleys would need an entire room just for the winter apparel of our many family members. I grasp my blue hat, purple mittens, and scarlet and gold scarf, tug them on, and hurry out the door after my dad.

 

He’s already crunching his way through the snow when I catch up to him. I poke him in the arm, causing him to turn towards me. He’s got a Ravenclaw hat perched on his head to honor Hugo, but, other than that, we match, both toting Gryffindor colors.

 

“So I have to come up with a career, dad,” I say conversationally. “Any ideas?”

 

“Nope.”

  
He pops the “p” in a way that makes me think that he already knows exactly what I’m going to do with my life and doesn’t want to tell me.

 

“Oh really.”

 

“Really really.”

 

“Can I come work at the Ministry with you?”

 

“In the auror department?”  


“Mmhmm.”

 

“That’s a terrible idea. I’d push all of my other coworkers in front of any spell that came at you and then get into huge trouble because I’d spend all of my time saving you.”

 

“How is that any different from real life?”

 

I’m teasing, but there’s a crack in my voice that shows the element of truth that comes with my words.

 

“You don’t need saving in real life, Rosie.”

 

His hands are placed casually in his pockets, his shoulders low and relaxed. I want to tell him over and over again that he is the best father that any girl could ever ask for, but I can’t get the words to sound as though they’re anything but childlike.

 

“But, seriously, dad. What am I going to do?”

 

“Well,” he begins, “as absolutely _insane_ as your Auntie Audrey is- don’t tell her I said that- I think that she had a point. And don’t tell her I said that part, either.” I laugh at his antics. “What do you want to do to make your mark on the world? What do you want to be remembered for? What would make you feel proud and accomplished? That’s what you’re going to do with your life.”

 

“That gives me nothing.”

 

“How about we go home tonight and make a really long list?”

 

My eyes light up.

 

“Do you mean that?”

 

He nods vigorously.

 

“Oh! And we can sit down with tea and brownies and your mum can bring her different colored pens and-”

 

“I think mum and I have made a nerd out of you.”

 

He stops walking and turns to me, eyes imploring.

 

“Just… don’t tell Uncle Harry.”

 

(OOO)

 

When mum is cradling me in her arms and letting me cry into her embrace, dad gets up and leaves the room. I’m too sad to see the bewildered look on her face, or even notice him leave, until he’s back. He taps on my shoulder, the motion stiff and awkward, and when I look up through tear filled lashes, I almost miss the smile that begins to grow across mum’s face.

 

Dad is holding a carton of ice cream and three spoons in one hand and a girly magazine in the other. 

 

“I’ve been preparing for this,” he shrugs as mum shakes her head, obviously impressed. “You said we would deal with it so I’m helping you deal with it.”

 

Wordlessly, I reach out for a spoon and a carton of ice cream. Dad sits down next to me on the couch, hands mum a spoon, and opens the magazine to a random page. He clears his throat loudly, then begins reading in a stiff, monotone voice.

 

“Ehem. ‘Ten Signs That He’s Flirting With You and Not Just Being Nice.’ Number one-”

 

(OOO)

 

They hold hands the day that I graduate.

 

I look out in the audience while I’m getting my diploma and almost stumble when my eyes comprehend the sea of red hair that is all sitting together. There’s some brown hair and blond hair mixed in with it, but most it’s like a huge section of the crowd caught on fire and everybody is reacting as though nothing is happening. When my eyes finally find my parents, I see their hands clasped tightly together.

  
I wonder if they’re as panicked as I am.

 

Even when the ceremony is over and everybody is standing up and hugging, mum and dad don’t stop holding hands. They group hug me instead, which feels kind of silly but also kind of nice. And it makes me smile to know that they’re both as emotionally panicked as I am- that this graduation is a big deal for me _and_ dad _and_ mum, and we’re all going to figure it out together.

 

I think that there’s a myth in the wizarding world that you never need your parents again once you go to Hogwarts, but this is such a lie. I need them to help me figure out who I am and what I’m going to do and they’re going to be there to do that for me.

 

Even though most kids’ parents are heading to the apparation points that are specifically set up for graduation day, I pull mine down to the boats with me so that they can see me off one last time. Hugo trails behind the three of us, but then I tug his hand into mine and for a moment, we are one family unit instead of four passing ships and it feels impossibly nice.

 

“Enjoy this,” mum says, her voice thick with emotion, and daddy squeezes her hand tight, pulling her back to him.

 

“I never got to do this,” he admits, “so you’re going to have to tell me all about it.”

 

“You can come with me,” I suggest, only half-joking.

 

“No.” He shakes his head. “It’s all you, Rosie.”

 

For a moment, I don’t know what to do. Then I look over at Aunt Ginny, Uncle Harry, and James, who all are having a similar conversation with Al. Uncle Harry has already cried. He never cries except for at big life events- he still can’t believe that he gets to be married and have kids and have Godchildren and watch them grow up and graduate and get jobs. Nobody judges him.

 

When Al glances over at me, our eyes catch, and I roll my slightly tear filled eyes at him. He says something to his parents, kisses his mum on the forehead, and then lopes over to my family unit.

 

“You’re going in the boat with me, right?”

 

“Of course,” I say. “We were in them together the first time we saw the school. Remember?”

 

“Yeah,” he snorts. “We really are creatures of habit, aren’t we?”

 

“Meticulously so,” mum says.

 

I start to walk to the boat, but at the last minute decide to turn around and throw my arms around dad.

 

“Just so you know,” I say, chin on his shoulder, “if I could do this with anybody in the world, you would be my absolute first pick.”

 

It’s entirely possible that he’ll never fully understand how grateful I am that he is my father.

 

(OOO)

 

“Ron! Rose is here!”  Mum’s thrilled shout echoes through the entire house. She immediately rushes over to the refrigerator, pulls out a pitcher of lemonade, and then slides a chair out with her wand. “Sit, sit! Your father is just upstairs putting shelves in your bedroom. He should be down in a moment.”

 

“Why would he be putting shelves in my bedroom?”

 

“We’re turning it into a second library, dear.”

 

My eyes nearly bug out of their sockets.

  
“ _What_?”

 

“Well you’re never here _,_ dear, and we really do need the space for all of our books.”

 

“ _Your_ books,” I mumble, annoyed.

 

“And we know, of course, that living so close to the hospital makes your commute easier, but you really aren’t going to be living at home ever again so it certainly doesn’t make sense to leave that room empty.”

 

“You can keep it as a shrine to me when I become a famous Healer and people want to visit the place where it all began! Then you can make money off of me and buy an addition to the house.”

 

Nailed it.

 

Mum is still laughing when dad arrives in the kitchen. His back is to me as he gives mum a kiss on the cheek, pouring himself a cup of coffee even though it’s 2 o’clock in the afternoon.

 

“Hi Rosie!” he says cheerfully. “How are you? How’s it going at the hospital?”

 

When he turns around, I almost fall out of my chair in shock. He’s got glasses with thick, black frames perched on his nose.

 

“Since when did you need glasses?” I demand.

 

Mum turns around, practically glowing.

 

“He’s had them for three months. Aren’t they lovely?”

 

“And you wear them all the time?” I manage to get out. “Do you actually have bad eyesight or are you pretending?”

 

“I genuinely do need them,” he says, looking at me as though I’ve turned mad in two seconds. We haven’t even hugged yet and I’m already accusing him of faking his need for glasses that he’s apparently had for three months. I’m a terrible daughter. “Although I suppose I wear them a little more than I need to because your mum likes them.”

 

She nods enthusiastically as she sits down in the chair next to me, clutching onto her tea. 

 

“You two gross me out.”

 

“We gross everybody out,” dad says, giving me a one armed hug. He plops down into the chair across from me. “So did your mum tell you about the room yet?”

 

“Yes!” I say, anger flaring once more. “And I can’t believe you agreed to do that to me!”

 

“You’re never here!” he argues. “We didn’t do anything to you. It was a natural progression.”

 

“I’ll move back in if you leave my room untouched.”

 

Both of my parents stop stirring their drinks and look up at me. They give each other uncertain glances.

 

“Um,” dad starts. “How do we say this delicately?”

 

“No,” mum says firmly. “You are not moving back into this house.”

 

“We’ve almost got Hugo out,” dad points out. “We’re actually going to be empty nesters now! It’s going to be wicked.”

 

He sounds like a little kid talking about Christmas.

 

“Well then why don’t you turn Hugo’s room into a library?” I yell, beginning to get more than a little upset.

 

Mum looks glum too.

 

“I already thought of that. But your father said that I was being selfish, so we’re turning it into a shrine for the Chudley Cannons instead. He’s painting it orange and adding posters.”

 

Dad takes a self-satisfied sip of his coffee.

 

“Do either of you have any interests besides Quidditch, books, and each other?”

 

They pause for a moment, wordlessly communicating with the system that they’ve perfected so much over the years that they’ve been married.

 

“No.”

 

“Nope.”

 

(OOO)

 

I don’t even care that it’s 3 AM. When I knock my fist against the door, it makes a loud, resilient sound that will hopefully be loud enough. I need it to be loud enough. Please be loud enough.

 

The wall at the side of the house seems to be sturdier than I am feeling right now, so I lean my head against it and let my body shake up and down as tears fall down my cheeks. When the door swings open, I immediately rush into my father’s arms.

 

“Shit,” he says instantly, his hand going up to stroke my hair. “Shit, Rosie. What’s wrong?”

 

“She died,” I sob. “Dad, she died.”

 

“Who died?”

 

“My… p-patient. I c-couldn’t save her, dad, I couldn’t fix it. I was supposed to fix it!”

 

“Shit,” he says again, grasping my elbow and pulling me into the couch. “Okay, Rose. It’s okay. It’s all going to be just fine.”

 

He places me on the couch in the dark sitting room and hands me my favorite pillow, which I then proceed to sob into. The shame that is rolling over me doesn’t vanish with my tears, which is what I had been hoping for. But all I feel is more guilt, building up up up until it weighs down my head. I can’t hold up my head anymore. She’s dead.

 

It’s not the first time that one of my patient’s has died, but I’ve known this woman since my internship at St. Mungo’s. She had put her faith in me and I had betrayed her.

 

My boss said that it was just her time, but I don’t believe him. It’s bullshit. It wasn’t her time. She didn’t deserve to die.

 

Dad is back, holding a cup of tea and a piece of chocolate.

 

“It’ll help,” he says when I look at it. “I promise.”

 

He sits next to me, throwing his arm around me and letting me cry into his nightshirt.

 

“You’re a good Healer, Rose. You are. Things just happen and you can’t control them.”

 

“But maybe I could have!”

 

“Did you make any technical missteps?”

 

“N-no.”

 

“Was her death directly related to something that you missed or an action that you performed?”

 

“N-no. It just h-happened.”

 

“So you’re going to be able to forgive yourself eventually. I know you will. It’s just going to take some time.”

 

I know that I’m never going to forgive myself, but I don’t say it out loud. My weeping quiets into hiccoughs.

 

“Say Rosie?” he says tentatively. “Did I ever tell you about the time I burped up slugs for your mother?”

 

(OOO)

 

Andrew proposes on a Wednesday night when we are brushing our teeth in the same bathroom mirror. I give him a toothpaste filled smile just to make him laugh, and as I spit the toothpaste out, he spits the words out.

  
It’s not like he doesn’t already have the ring, but he still looks shocked that he wasted the amazing dinner reservations that he had made for us. As he slides my ring onto my finger, I promise that there couldn’t possibly have been a better proposal than the one that he gave me.

  
“But… I had a speech,” Andrew refutes, voice horrified.  We lie down on the bed, facing each other. I kiss the look off of his face.

 

“And you asked my dad, right?” I say.

 

“Oh yeah,” he nods. “I’m not stupid enough to not ask your dad.”

 

“What did he say?” I laugh, entwining our both of our hands together.

 

He swipes his bottom lip with his tongue and then bites it, a habit that he has. I love that habit, as distracting as it is. To get him to stop, I kiss him again.

 

“He recounted, at length, the story of how he, your mum, and Harry Potter all defeated the Dark Lord together. I’m talking about an entire story from his first year to the battle in 1998. And then he gave me a very pointed look and said, ‘Do you understand what I’m trying to say, son?’ while his fingers inched towards his wand… it was terrifying.”

 

“Don’t be afraid of my dad,” I tell him. “Telling you that story just means that he trusts me enough to make my own choice. And I choose you. Always. Of course.”

 

“Of course.” He sighs dramatically, rolling his eyes. “If I had known that this was an ‘of course’ sort of question, I would have asked it months ago.”

 

“And miss getting that speech from dad? You wouldn’t dare.”

 

“The dad speech alone wasn’t that bad… but I’m pretty sure he set your other family members on me as well.”

 

“What do you mean?” I frown.

 

“James, Al, Fred, Louis, and Hugo have all come up to me discussing their favorite defensive spells at random times.”

 

“Oh dad. I think he’s been preparing for this his entire life.”

 

“He probably has an emergency proposal button that he pressed when I came to talk to him.”

 

“Oooh, and a chair with a really high back!”

 

“And a fake mustache that he sticks on and twirls!”

 

We go on like this for quite a while.

 

(OOO)

 

Dad and I have been practicing this for months. As the announcer gives us our cue, we meet each other’s eyes from across the crowd and give each other a curt nod. By the time we’re out of our seats and have reached each other, we’re already giggling like children at how seriously we’re taking this.

 

“We’ve got this, dad,” I say. “We’re going to own this father/daughter dance.”

 

“We’re going to rock it’s world,” he agrees.

“We’re gonna make it our bitch.”

 

“Just a bit too far, Rosie.”

 

“Yeah, you know, I sensed that but then I went for it anyways.”

 

“Go with your gut next time, I’d say.”

 

“Oh, okay.”

 

We’re silent for a moment as he spins and dips me.

 

“Did you give the cousins scorecards for us?” I ask as I come back up.

 

“Yep. We’re going to kick the arse of Bill and Dom.” I nod my agreement. “You look beautiful, Rosie.”

 

“No I don’t.” I roll my eyes. “I haven’t peed all day and I’m so hungry I think I might vomit.”

 

“But at least your dress is nice!”

 

“Not nicer than food.”

 

“That’s my baby girl.”

 

(OOO)

 

Dad disappears for twelve hours when he finds out that I’m pregnant.

 

I start to get worried around hour five, but mum just rolls her eyes and starts talking about the weather. When I shoot her an angry, pointed look, she lets out a large sigh.

 

“This is how he handles stuff that he thinks he can’t handle, Rose. This is what he does. He’ll be back.”

 

When he does come back, he smells like whiskey and he’s carrying an orange Chudley Cannon’s jumper, baby sized.

 

“I hope she’s a ginger,” is all he says before heading upstairs to sleep off his hangover.

 

(OOO)

 

“What are you going to name him?”

 

My eyes are slipping shut with exhaustion, but I open them when I hear dad’s voice. His familiarity tugs me away from the desperation to fall asleep, and I smack my dry lips quickly before pulling my eyes open with great effort.

Dad is holding my baby boy, my beautiful brunet baby boy who has his daddy’s hair and his grandfather’s eyes. The baby looks so tiny is his old, weathered hands. Dad has held so many babies, but he’s trembling as he holds mine. It’s different when you’ve seen the various things that life has to offer and can only imagine what it’s going to hand to a child. His hands are more wrinkled now than they used to be, as is his face, and his glasses are tucked into his shirt and even when he’s not smiling, you can still see the smile lines on his eyes and face.

 

I want my baby boy to grow up and be just like his grandfather.

 

“Matthew.”

 

“That’s a nice name.”

 

“Matthew Ronald Holloway.”

 

Daddy freezes. He looks up at me with awe in his eyes.

 

“You’re naming him after me?”

 

“You were my first pick,” I tell him, yawning. “I love you, daddy.”

 

Sleep finally claims me as he protects my baby.

 

(OOO)

 

“How many people here have you actually met?” Heather asks, leaning over her brother to give me a wide eyed look. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this many people in one room.”

 

“Well, you are a Weasley,” Andrew points out, ruffling her hair. “We know lots of people.”

 

She’s not technically a Weasley, of course. She’s a Holloway. But she knows that she’s a Weasley, just like her brother and sister know that they are. Heather, however, is the only one that got my hair.

 

Matthew is sitting at the Potter table, talking with his Great-Uncle and Great-Aunt. He wants to be a newspaper writer, just like Aunt Ginny, and they’ve grown closer in that. Sometimes I joke that they’re just as much his grandparents as my parents are, and the same applies to James, Al, and Lily’s kids. We’re so close that everybody becomes reasonably interchangeable at a certain point.

 

Maggie is sitting next to her grandmother, ever the grandma’s girl. As mum talks to the many people that approach her to send their love and congratulations, Maggie hangs onto her hand and soaks up every word.

 

The only person that looks at mum with more awe than Maggie is dad himself.

 

The latter is sitting right next to his wife, his chest puffed out proudly. This party was his idea, and I think that he decided to throw it to gloat. I can’t actually know what he’s thinking, but from the look on his face, I imagine that it’s something like ‘ _see this extremely accomplished and attractive woman sitting next to me? We’ve been married for fifty years. Suck it.’_

 

Both of us have the maturity of a five year old sometimes.

 

“Hanging in there, dad?” I ask, dropping Andrew’s hand so that I can move over and greet him.

 

“Oh yeah,” he nods. “I mean, having a party to honor my extremely loving and successful marriage is just a tad stressful, but I think I’ll be able to get through it.”

 

I nudge him in the side with my elbow, making him laugh.

 

“You’re forty seven, Rose,” he reminds me, eyes sparkling. “Get it together.”

 

For a few moments, we’re amicably silent, just enjoying each other’s company.

 

“Was it hard?”

 

“Was what hard?”  


“Being married for fifty years. Do you recommend it?”

 

He doesn’t answer immediately, causing momentary doubt to spill into my heart.

 

“I highly recommend it,” he admits, “but not because it was easy.”

 

I look over at Andrew.

 

“Yeah. I know.”

 

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but your mum and I bicker a _lot_.”

I snort loudly.

 

“Yeah, dad. I have figured that out. Thanks, though.”

 

“In all seriousness, Rosie, it’s not going to be as seamless as you want it to be. You can’t really plan for marriage, or prep solutions for problems before they arise. Even though your mum and I love each other more than any two people have ever loved each other, I still slept on the couch sometimes and we would fight about the _stupidest_ things- still do, actually- or go through spells where the passion just wasn’t there. I mean, it was there. But we didn’t want to pay attention to it, so we just didn’t. And those were the hardest times, because we never doubted that we loved each other, but we had babies and then kids and then teenagers and somewhere in between all of that, we had to find ways to be a married couple and sometimes we just… failed.”

 

“But you didn’t fail.”

 

“No, we didn’t. As a matter of fact, I would say that we succeeded quite beautifully.”

 

“I’ve never seen anyone look at anyone the way you look at mum,” I divulge.

 

“It’s because we’re savoring the fact that we’re alive.” He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Rose, we’re so grateful for each other that there isn’t even a proper way to explain it. I watched her have the word ‘mudblood’ carved in her arm. She watched me walk away from her and thought that she was never going to see me again. This relationship has always been so important to both of us and we’re so glad that we got to play it out. That’s what that look is. It’s ‘Holy shit, Hermione, we actually made _babies_ together. How crazy is that?’”

 

I chuckle.

 

“Crazy.”

 

“I know.”

 

I pick up mum’s drink, which is resting at her elbow, and raise it towards dad.

 

“To fifty more years.”

 

“To fifty more,” he assents. “And I’m looking forward to it.”

 

(OOO)

 

There’s supposed to be a way to put everything that you feel about a person in writing, but I haven’t found it yet. The paper that I have in my hands is filled with words but they all seem so arbitrary because love isn’t something that you can put on paper. Neither is laughter, or respect, or admiration. But the crowd is looking at me, and I have to say something, because saying nothing would be worse.

 

It’s almost like repaying a debt. He’s done so much for me. Now I’m doing something for him.

 

I smooth my skirt as it tickles below my knees. My eyes find my daughters in the crowd, smiling encouragingly at me, and my brother, who looks empty and zoned out, and my mother, whose professional face reveals absolutely nothing about how she is feeling.

 

There’s no use in delaying the inevitable.

 

I smooth out the paper, open my mouth, take a breath, and begin to speak.

 

“Daddy was orange."


End file.
